Yellow bleeds into empty space,
Fingers trace what’s forgotten—
Light bends, but doesn’t reach,
No warmth, no trace.

The wind erases what it touches,
Thoughts drift, lost in air.
Inside, a silence stretches,
Where words once lived.

A river fades,
But whispers crash—
Water turns to dust,
Silent in my chest.

A name, a face—
They slip like smoke,
Dissolving into nothing
I cannot grasp.

Bones threaded with silence,
a weft of unseen tides,
drowned before the sky could murmur,
names twisted into half-light.

Empty calls carve through marrow,
a dissonance stitched in the flicker
of unspoken skies,
twisting where shadows breathe.

Flesh frays in the void of mouths
that never opened—
rusted hums too thin to grasp.

Skin unthreads,
and what remains burns in the air
like a scream that cannot form.

Dust to dust—
the thread severed
in half-thoughts,
too distant to bleed,
too numb to remember.

The sky is a tendon, frayed thin by teeth
you never saw but always felt.
Clouds bruise where the wind forgets its name,
dripping vowels that splinter on the street below.

The alleyway chews its own shadow,
spitting out footprints that lead nowhere.
A door unhinges itself—not open, not closed,
just the absence of both.

Inside, time has folded wrong.
Walls lean toward you like hungry things,
their plaster tongues lapping at the scent
of something almost human.

A glass of water tilts without falling.
The soup tastes like forgotten alphabets,
syllables curling at the edges of your tongue
before slithering down your throat in reverse.

A figure exhales, but the breath does not leave—
it coils, thick and iridescent,
a thing with too many wings,
each one stitched from the whispers of lost hours.

The candle does not flicker; it dreams.
The spoon hums, knowing more than you.
Your reflection turns its back,
steps out of the mirror, and leaves you there.

Outside, the street swallows its own silence.
Something in the distance—
a clock? a voice? the shudder of the earth?
No. Just the sound of something watching,
waiting, wearing your skin.

Waking, or not.
Walls fold inward, thin-breathing.
Something hums behind what isn’t there.

Steps press into steps,
press into steps, press—
A door flickers. A mirror drowns.
A bed forgets its shape.

Somewhere, a hand reaching, unmade.
Somewhere, a voice, air-thin, unvoicing.
Drink, it says.
But the cup is hunger, the milk is grit,
and my mouth is borrowed.

Leaving, or not.
The door unshuts, the light unwrites,
and I am—

They fed you ghosts, called it breakfast.
You swallowed bone-dust with your milk,
felt it settle in the gaps of your ribs,
grinding, grinding, grinding—
but they said: grow.

Outside, the trees were taller than time,
but inside, the walls learned your name.
Soft hands became knives.
Small mouths learned silence.
The mirrors cracked, but nobody asked why.

The lullabies were hunger songs,
and the bedtime stories always ended with:
Run, little rabbit. Run.

Time drags its rusted teeth through the hours, carving paths I cannot follow.

Four years of severed threads, of reaching through fractures

where hands do not meet, where silence swallows what should have been.

You were small when I last held you, a weight I could carry, a warmth that fit inside my ribs.

Now you rise beyond the edges of my sight, a fire flickering in a room I cannot enter, a voice carried by winds that never return.

The world is made of locks, of distances built like cathedrals to the absent.

I have screamed at stone, at glass, at paper, at laws that wear no faces, at names that do not bleed.

I have torn at the seams of waiting, but limbo does not break"

it only watches.

Still, I dream in hunger, in fractures of light.

A moment where your name is more than a ghost in my mouth, where your laughter does not stretch through wires, through time, through static.

One day, I will stand beside you, not as a flicker, not as a whisper, but as something real, something whole.

Until then, I build futures in the dark, lay bricks in rooms I have never seen, sculpt a life that may never know me.

No force can break what is already broken.
No distance can erase what is already fading.

Nights unspool, threadbare and unspoken,
folding inward like paper never meant to be read.
Air thickens in the absence of weight,
a vacant gravity pressing against nothing.

I have stood inside mirrors that did not hold my shape,
watched glass ripple as if swallowing an afterthought.
Footsteps dissolve before touching the ground,
syllables decay before finding a mouth.
Sound moves, but not toward me.
Light bends, but does not stay.

They have names for the things I am not.
Soft words, dulled edges,
a kindness wrapped in misunderstanding.
But I have walked long enough to know
the difference between being unseen
and being erased.

Laughter hums in frequencies my bones do not carry,
a hymn for voices unfractured,
for hands that do not slip through their own grasp.
I have traced its outline, memorized its resonance,
a song played beyond a locked door.

Happiness is a language spoken in another room,
a warmth that does not cross thresholds,
a breath I have never drawn.
It moves past me like mist"
seen, felt, gone.

I have worn every shape, every silence,
have bent myself into something easier to hold.
But some voids do not hunger for filling,
some absences are not waiting to be undone.

If I reached for help, the air would take my hand.
If I vanished, the dust would not stir.
If I was meant to be more than a flicker,
the world must have long since turned the page.

There are rooms I do not enter, doors I welded shut with bone and sinew, memories pressed between the walls like dried insects, fragile, rotting, never quite dead.

The past does not sleep.

It moves beneath my skin, a rhythm of hands that never let go, voices that coil around my throat, laughter that sounds like breaking glass.

I walk through mirrors and find someone else staring back, eyes that don't belong to me, a mouth that speaks in riddles, a face I've tried to carve away.

But the past grows back like ivy, crawling, strangling, consuming.

There were nights that never ended, silent wars fought in locked rooms, secrets swallowed like shards of ice, cold, cutting, sinking deep.

I have learned to live as a whisper, to step lightly through the wreckage, to fold myself into the smallest spaces, as if disappearing could make me safe.

But echoes do not die. They linger, they gnaw, they fester. And in the quiet, when the world goes still, they find their way back home.

I have no name. No home. No past. Only the taste of vanished cities on my tongue, only the echo of voices that once knew me, now swallowed by time.

I walk like ruin, like something history has already buried. The wind does not carry me home. The earth does not know my weight. Even the stars "those cold, distant witnesses have turned their backs.

I have begged the night to remember me, whispered my name into the mouths of rivers, pressed my hands to the dirt like a prayer. But the world does not answer. The world does not care.

I am exile. I am absence. I am the silence after the storm, the footprints already fading, the shadow of a man no one waits for.

If I disappear tonight, let the wind scatter my bones like forgotten songs, let the rain wash my name into the sea, where even the lost become less than a memory, less than dust, less than a dream no one dared to keep.

I loved like an open wound left to rot,
bled myself empty,
but they drank and still called me nothing.
I reached out with trembling hands,
and they recoiled like I was filth.

I learned how to stay quiet,
how to shrink until I disappeared.
I watched them talk around me,
laugh past me,
exist as if I were never there.

I screamed into the hollow night,
my voice snapped in half,
but the world kept turning,
unbothered, untouched.

I tore myself open so they could see,
peeled my skin back,
let my ribs crack like dry branches.
They glanced inside,
saw the ruin,
and walked away.

I have become weightless,
a breath no one notices,
a ghost that never had a home.
A name that tastes like dust,
a memory no one ever made.

If I vanished tonight,
the world wouldn’t flinch.
The sky wouldn’t darken.
No hands would reach for me.
No eyes would search the empty streets.

And in the morning,
someone else would take my place.
And I would be nothing.
Nothing...